The Butterfly Effect
by SylverSpyder
Summary: Spies, planes, weapons, plotting, secrets, mistaken identities, later some k unit. First in the The Stranger and the Spy series. **Under Reconstruction**
1. Chapter 1

_I don't actually own Alex Rider. And any resemblance to what you know as the truth is coincidental. You can't possibly know my Truth. It's classified.  
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><p><em>The man watched the faces of the people boarding the plane, careful to keep his face expressionless, eyes dull. The prosthetics on his face itched a bit, but it wouldn't due to be recognized, not when this much was on the line<em> .

Alex shuffled aboard the plane with his carry-on in one hand, sighing at the line of people in front of him. He was reluctant to board. Reluctant to leave San Francisco when he had just managed to forget, forget the whisper of flames through the ashy remains of the vehicle, forget the feeling of the gun jumping in his hand as he shot Julius Grief… He hated it. But he had to return. Before, he swallowed hard. Before he hadn't even had a chance to pack. The memories had been too strong. Now he had to go through it all. He owed it to Jack's family. He was supposed to meet her stepbrother there. As he headed toward the airplane, he wondered if the Starbright's blamed him. If they somehow knew it was his fault. He sighed heavily, passing now into the first class seating.

_The instructions had said the boy would be seated in K-17._

Alex glanced at his ticket and down at the seat in front of him. Having hefted his carry-on into the compartment, the person with the window seat next to him had still not arrived. He prepared to sit down anyways.

"Excuse me," The boy was tall, taller than Alex with serious eyes, broad shoulders, and long, spidery fingers. "I was wondering if we might switch places, you see, I've been assigned the window seat, and flying isn't really my thing..."

Without acknowledging him, Alex moved over to the window seat.

_The man slipped inconspicuously into the plane, buttoning the top button on his newly donned flight attendant uniform and brushing past security with a slick grin. The prominent nose from before was now short and squashed and where before he had been clean-shaven, he now had a thick, bristly mustache, prominent enough that it would be the feature most easily recalled by any witnesses. Of course, it was fake. He slid into the bathroom as the plane prepared to take off, out of sight so that he wouldn't be noticed during all of the hustle and bustle of lift off. Once the plane was in the air, he would find the boy._

As the plane engine rumbled and the 'fasten your seatbelts' signs stopped flashing, Alex grinned sympathetically at the queasy looking boy beside him. "That bad, huh?"

A gleam of life hit the other boy's tired hazel eyes as he groaned, gritting his teeth. "I can't look as bad as I feel, can I?"

Alex's doubtful gaze was easy to interpret.

The boy groaned again and pulled his leather jacket tighter, the illumination of the airline s incandescent bulbs casting bruise-like shadows across his green-hued complexion. His strong jaw was knotted as though in pain. Guess so then. "The name's Wes, by the way."

Alex offered Wes a smile back. "Airsick?"

Brushing his thick, chestnut-colored hair back into a sweaty disarray, Wes offered Alex a haunted look. "Fear of flying. You'd think I wouldn't have a problem, I've climbed some of the tallest peaks in the Himalayas. As long as I'm connected to the ground I'm fine but..." He gestured hopelessly to his own hunched over state as though it were self-explanatory. It was.

"I had a friend like you once," Alex tried to distract Wes. "I could have sworn Wolf wasn't afraid of anything, he was enough of a bastard to know that everything was afraid of him. Then one day during tr- One day, we went skydiving. The look on his face," Alex chuckled. "In a way it scared me more than it scared him. He always seemed so infallible. But no one's too young to die."

Alex had forgotten his companion. Next to him, Wes sent the boy a half-questioning, half-commiserating look. The movement drew Alex out of his thoughts. Brown eyes suddenly twinkled mischievously, Alex's demeanor changing in a second. "I kicked him out of the plane, you know."

Wes stomach churned uncomfortably. "You what?"

"I kicked him out of the plane. What can I say, I'm accident prone."

"Oh. I went base jumping, once. Accidently caused a twenty-car pile-up." The comment was offhand and pure Wes. Alex looked surprised then offered his own counter.

"I've done both of those things, though not at the same time. I also dived in a shipwreck, once. Got trapped." The competition was on. Wes smiled, forgetting his fear of flying for a minute.

"I've been spelunking, got lost and happened upon a major cartel's drug stash."

"I've flown a plane and crashed it." And possibly shot at the Prime Minister. The devil's in the details.

"I've crashed one into a building. Apparently it s not wise for someone who's afraid of flying to attempt to get a pilot's license..." Alex raised his eyebrows at this revelation.

"I accidentally blew up the science wing at my school." Yeah, when he said it like that, excluding the whole being-chased-by-a-psychotic-clone-with-a-gun-and-a-vendetta thing, it didn't sound half bad.

"I accidentally rammed a truckload of potassium chlorate into a vehicle transporting sour gummy worms. Boom."

"I fell into a giant fish tank with a Portuguese Man of War." Fell wasn't quite the right word.

"Ah, Physalia physalis. No brain, no anus." Wes nodded in surprised understanding. "Shark tank during feeding time. I hate field trips."

"White water rafting accident, went over a waterfall." O.k., so sure, he kayaked over a waterfall to avoid a psychopath and save the world. Schemantics.

"Bungee jumping, forgot the cord. That one wasn't my fault..."

"Skied down a mountain and onto a train." So yeah, maybe it was snowboarding, on an ironing board, while outrunning bullets, but since when did that pertain to the conversation?

It was Wes' turn to raise his eyebrows, but he was prepared.

"Jumped my '72 Norton 750 Commando off the top of a skyscraper."

"Touché." Alex inclined his head in Wes direction. "How many floors?"

Wes smirked, ignoring the question. "Who are you, anyway?"

Alex smiled. "You can just call me Alex."

"Ok, Alex, and twenty-three floors."

Alex raised his eyebrows. "Damn. I'm not even going to ask how you got out of that one."

Wes flashed some teeth in his most genuine smile, a smile that seemed oddly familiar to Alex. "Don't bother. It's classified."

Alex stifled a snort. As if the boy next to him had any idea about what classified meant.

"What about the train deal?"

Alex turned towards the window, hiding his grin. "Classified."

_An old man headed towards the bathroom, unaware that he was being observed. He was the perfect target. His ring finger was bare so no one to search for him and a cap on his head that the watcher could use to hide any imperfections in the prosthetics the man would use to simulate similar facial features. He followed the old man into the tiny airplane restroom, clicking the door shut behind him. It happened before the old man ever had a chance to scream._

When the stopover flight landed in Atlanta, Alex shook Wes hand and prepared to exit the plane. Someone brushed by him as they walked past. Alex's eyes flew up, but it was just an elderly gentleman. He frowned as Wes walked off, followed by the elderly gentleman. Something felt off. Alex shook his head, certain he must have imagined the peculiar feeling and ignoring his memory of the last time he had felt this way. Just because he was headed back to England did not mean anything was bound to happen. He was done with all that right?

As Alex slowly strolled into the terminal, sixteen year old Wesley Starbright, otherwise known as Wes, rushed forward to meet his connecting flight, too distracted to notice the man who had been observing him, watching his every move...


	2. Chapter 2

Wes shuffled aboard the plane, his eyes downcast and mouth pressed into a firm, thin line. His broad shoulders were slumped forward as he reluctantly moved forward. His last flight- that hadn't been too bad. The boy, Alex, had been distracting enough. Wes shifted his weight, tugging on the worn leather of his jacket till it covered his hands which, he told himself, were shaking with cold. Nevermind that it was only 68 degrees out.

Four years, he swallowed convulsively at the memory, hesitating at the entrance to the cabin. It had been four years since he had last ventured aboard a plane. Only today had he mastered the courage to go. He had to, after all. He had to do it for Jack.

As he stood frozen in the moment, caught by fear and memories so vivid he could feel it, feel the warmth of the sun seeping through his favorite jacket and the warm, dry hand clutching his, he was jostled by a fellow passenger. He glanced up, keen eyes snapping quickly open, but there was no one around. a puzzled frown graced his features, the face that had gone so curiously blank at the sudden brush of the stranger became uncertain. He shook it off just as suddenly and continued forward, eyes dancing from seat to seat, taking in his fellow passengers, evaluating them.

The man in two-b, Wes observed, had a tan line and a slight indent around the fourth finger of his left hand. The skin was the same texture, however, as the rest of the finger, not worn smooth by years of unrelenting contact, so he'd say divorced, and married between three to five years. The man's foot slid out into the aisle, and Wes took it in, drinking in the details of the man's well-worn footwear. What struck Wes first was the designer. Nicholas Kirkwood, he noted with interest. A European brand. Also, the carry-on container above him was open, and the edge of a gift bag just barely peaked out from the edge. Obviously returning, Wes concluded. Watching the man for just a second, he gathered these thoughts and more, noticing the man's thick jacket in what would be for northern Europe unseasonably hot weather. From the South, then, Wes determined, and glancing at the class ring on the man's right hand, his sharp vision took in the tiny lettering. 1976, it read. So Wes could safely assume the man was between fifty-four and fifty-six years old, an age confirmed by the slight speckling of gray hairs in the scruff on his jaw line, the sagging chin, slightly squinting eyes just beginning to form cataracts , and the liberally dashed crow s feet that graced the corners of the man's dark blue eyes.

In the same look, Wes got a glance at the woman beside the vacationer. Early thirties. Short hair that didn't quite match the roots on her eyebrows or her eyelashes, dyed. Ruddy, wind chapped cheeks, but no jacket and an ease of motion that prevented even the notion of her not enjoying the brisk weather. Comes from cool climate, he noted. She had on thick bracelets that covered her wrists on either side and pale skin. Cutting, he guessed, elbows weren't covered so she didn't favor needles, the pedicure on her toes confirmed that. Someone with track marks between their toes wouldn't want someone near their feet, learning their secret. Her left hand flipped a pen in an involuntary nervous habit and when he met her eyes as she glanced up, the dilated pupils were self explanatory. Pills, then. And the medication was obviously not prescribed as the girl sipped a mojito, brought to her by one of the overeager flight attendants reminiscent of a small puppy as she pranced about in her crisply ironed uniform. Manic depression. Glancing at the brightly colored toes and the hints of color, probably mildly bipolar. The pills weren't from fear of flying: she seemed perfectly comfortable watching the view out of the window. Pen, but no paper. The type of woman that would always have a pen, always need one. Calluses on her fingers confirmed. That would only come from years of devout writing. The calluses on the middle finger were too low for painting or drawing. By the position she probably had cramped hand writing as well.

So it was that Wes, in one glance, took in all of the people destined to embark on a journey with him that had once taken ancient sailors months and now took all of six hours when helped by a good strong wind like the one that currently bombarded the east coast.

However, when his gaze came to rest on the seat he had been assigned, he was once more surprised by the thin figure curled up in the window seat. It seems he might have another chance to get answers from that mysterious Alex… Wes was surprised to realize he couldn't remember Alex's last name. Then, searching his memory, he was even more surprised to realize Alex had never offered that information, or anything much really. Wes frowned. The boy was a puzzle, as well as a potential friend. Wes loved puzzles.

The man watched, watched the boy, his target, careful not to get too close. He'd been warned about the boy's special skills. It was hard to believe that the pale, wraith-like boy could have taken down Scorpia and some of the world's most elite criminal organizations, but then, no one expected the assassin either. Slipping up towards his target, the man slid two fingers from his pocket, and jostling the target as he passed, pick pocketed the boy's possessions, only to raise his eyes a moment later as he glanced down at the cards, the only contents of the boy's jacket pocket.

W. Starbright, PI

Interesting

What the man couldn't have known was that the worn leather jacket had grown to be a part of the boy over the years. The man didn't know about the dozens of pockets in the lining. No one did.

The man continued to watch as Wes slid into his seat, sharing a warm smile with his young compatriot who seemed to have just woken up. If either of them had known about the mistake that had been made, and what was going to happen because of it, they would be far from smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

So, Wes smiled at the boy sitting next to him. "I never did catch your last name," Wes hinted, not too subtly.

Alex grinned at Wes' attempt to wheedle information out of him. "No, you didn't."

"Was that reiteration just for clarification purposes or do you really plan on not telling me your last name?"

Alex's grin turned smug.

As the sun sank beneath the clouds below them and down past the horizon, shades began to slide down over the windows and the cabin lights dimmed into darkness. Wes, unable to have fully conquered his fear, held a painfully tight grip on the arm rests. From beside him, a loud ring drew several disgruntled 'hush's and a snapped 'Shud'dup'.

There was a click as Alex flipped his phone open. Wes could vaguely hear a voice on the other end of the line. Alex rose from his seat and, climbing over Wes' liberally splayed legs, headed off in the direction of the restroom. Concentrating, Wes focused on Alex's lips, shadowed in the dim room. Lip reading, he caught a few of the words. "Bank... not coming back for that what?...No!..." Suddenly Alex turned around, hiding his lips from view and thus obliterating Wes' one chance to overhear the conversation that had only kindled Wes' curiosity.

At first glance, Wes had already been able to tell that Alex was unique. It was in the way the boy's eyes shifted, like Wes' own, drinking in the details of everything around him, searching for- something. Most people may retain the ability to see, but few actually take notice. They take everything they see for granted, ignoring the tiny details that Wes couldn't help but gather. It was also in the way Alex stood, his natural position something Wes recognized. Alex was constantly positioned on the balls of his feet, ready to take a hit or give one, it seemed. Calluses on the sides of his palms spoke to the reason. Karate, Wes would guess, by the boy's natural form and the position of the calluses. However, what surprised Wes was the presence of some smaller calluses and almost invisible scarring in thin white lines on Alex's knuckles. He knew them as signs of a fighter, yet why would what looked like an experienced karate student be doing fighting brawler style? Alex puzzled Wes, and rightly so. He was too at ease to be a natural fighter, too quick to smile and befriend someone, but his hands said otherwise. Wes also took in the boy's accent. It was American and yet, just a moment before as he stood up to take his call, Alex had clearly sounded British, as though he were born and bred in London itself. There was something wrong with this picture, and Wes was determined to figure it out. Besides, it would offer a welcome distraction from the face that had haunted his thoughts since he had heard the news.

Remembering now, Wes swallowed hard, reaching a hand up to finger his own hair, so unlike her red locks. Really, he had often told himself, he looked nothing like her- except when he smiled. He had found himself avoiding mirrors the resemblance was so strong.

Wes yanked his thoughts away from that admittedly dismal path and thought again of Alex. Something shifted in his mind and he drew up a memory of when Alex stepped away a moment before- and it hit him. As Alex had brought the phone up to his ear, his jacket had shifted and had revealed the edge of scarring along his neck, burn scarring. But that didn't fit with his clothes, which while not pretentious, were definitely costly. Remembering their conversation on the last flight, Wes frowned, puzzled. None of the things he had spoken of could have caused that pattern of scarring but- the plane! Wes factored it in. Aviation fuel splattering on someone's back could cause similar damage. Wes felt his stomach lurch once more as his thoughts brought him back to the other topic he was trying to avoid. Planes. Like the one he was on now. The rumble of the engine in that moment seemed to grow significantly louder. And Alex, that conundrum wrapped in a mystery and a soft fleece jacket, was still off god knows where.

Wes lurched out of his seat, stumbling towards the first class bathrooms and nearly bumping into several of his fellow passengers, still asleep in their chairs.

If Wes, in that moment, had not been so distracted by the hurling that seemed imminent, he would not have missed that one important detail that would have seemed so glaringly obvious to him at any other time. He wouldn't have missed the tell-tale bulge in the airline steward's jacket or the hat pulled low despite the darkness of the cabin. He would have noticed the glint of the smile and the way the man slid quietly after him, unnoticed by the plane's other snoring occupants. Wes wasn't one to miss important details on any other day. At any other moment, he would have been prepared and he could have stopped it, but at the moment, he just had to puke. The shadowy follower went unnoticed, and that was the third mistake Wes had ever made, the second being to ever get on a plane again, even after- after IT happened. Maybe if Wes had known what was coming he could have made a different choice, but he, unlike you, wasn't reading his story, and didn't have the benefits of foreshadowing or the opportunity to close this window and never find out what the shadowy, grim-faced man following him had hatched in his insidious mind. So here you have a choice, just like Wes did, and if you're lucky, you are not distracted by the immediate need to empty your gut in a nearby toilet. If you are, I suggest you commence with that before returning to this decision, a choice that will require your undivided attention. Your choice is this: continue reading this story and get sucked into a realm of adventure and mystery, pain and conspiracy, life and death, or shut your computer down and pretend you never read this. The choice is yours. Whether or not you do continue to read, Alex and Wes story will continue to unfold, violating all but one sentence of the Official Secrets Act and revealing secrets never meant to be released to the public. The choice is yours. I leave you now, but I will return and with me I shall have information that will change your life. The decision is yours: Follow Wes into the unknown world that Alex once knew part of, or remain ignorant.

A/N The second choice you have is whether or not to warm this poor fugitive from the government's heart with reviews. 


	4. Chapter 4

So, you read on, and already your life begins to change. Do you feel that prickly feeling on the back of your neck, can you feel that one small shiver slide down your spine? There's no going back. Wherever you are right now, you're a target. The further you dare read, the more dangerous it gets. Make no mistake.

Standing in the bathroom at the very back of the plane, having walked or rather stumbled there, his breath coming in short gasps, Wes stared at himself in the mirror, gathering information the way he would with a stranger. His red-rimmed hazel eyes spoke of little to no sleep, confirmed by the dark shadows under them. Long lashes made disguises easy and bluffing his way out of situations easier. His broad shoulders were well defined under his coat, the shoulders of someone who took physical fitness seriously, while tufts of stylishly messy brown hair cast uneven shadows over the strong jaw and high cheekbones. Beneath the glossy exterior though, the dark shadows contributed more than a deep and troubled persona, combined with the haunted eyes, they spoke of tragedy. Faded almost to nothing on one cheekbone was a fist-shaped bruise, the skin above it a pale green against its natural bronze. This was the sign of a recent physical alteration. Judging by the bruise pattern, position, and coloring, the assailant was around six feet three inches (two inches taller than Wes), left handed, and married. Remembering the source of their disagreement , Wes acknowledged that the man probably wouldn t be married much longer. He hated adultery cases.

Then, of course, there were marks. Barely discernible, but still there. They were calluses and scars, littered on his hands, a sign so familiar, it was instantly recognizable: the sign of a fighter. Right now, he was facing an internal struggle of sorts as he tried not to empty his stomach into the sink. Running a cool hand against his hot forehead, he released both hands grip on the sink, clenching his eyes for second to block out the spinning walls. He would not show weakness. He fought back the nausea and flicked the occupied switch off, eyes still shut. He frowned as it wouldn t move. He reached for the door handle, but a hand, clad in a leather glove worn smooth by years of use caught Wes hand. Wes eyes flew open to assess the situation, his natural curiousity overwhelming his shock and fear.

The man, face still hidden in the shadows of his cap, shook his head. "Don't think about it, Starbright. I have two accomplices ready to start shooting innocents the moment that you make a sound." There was a click and suddenly the cool metal casing of a 9mm glock was pressed against Wes cheek, the edges of the barrel digging into his skin, leaving a mark as though preparing a spot for later, marking its territory.

Wes pictured it, suddenly, his over vivid imagination coloring in the scene. The bullet would leave the chamber, one round out of the thirty possible in the extended clip, and fly around 1300 feet per second, entering the frontal lobe of his brain in a microsecond, the force of the projectile spattering brain matter and skull fragments alike onto the wall behind him like a macabre painting. The soft inner metal of the restroom s walls would catch the bullet then, and it would be over, Wes lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, his life s blood staining the linoleum. Wes swallowed hard. Memories flashed through his head, many of them including the red haired woman. Wait a second his brain encounter an image and a slow smile spread over his face.

"Now, now, Starbright. This doesn t need to be messy All we need is a little information... Some questions is all."

Wes grinned. "First thing first, breath mint? Second thing, you're bluffing."

Above the darkened hollows of the man s eye sockets, one eyebrow was raised.

Wes continued, oblivious. "You see, this is a Boeing 747, fitting approximately four hundred and sixteen passengers in a three class lay out. On the way here, there were approximately six passengers who weren t seated, plus there are approximately five bathrooms excluding the one we are currently in on this plane. All five of those bathrooms had occupied lights on. The math leaves all of the passengers accounted for when you consider other factors. The first class bathrooms, one contained a friend of mine," Wes briefly wondered if Alex could be considered a friend yet, "One contains an elderly gentlemen who was guzzling antacids like beer, who was entering as I passed, one in coach contains a man in first class who s returning to Southern Europe from a vacation, outside of the other, a young mother is waiting impatiently for her three year old son, the one next to ours is simply out of order. That is five of the six, leaving my empty seat as the last. Logically speaking, all of those in the other bathrooms can be excluded from viable threats. In addition, all of the passengers not already accounted for in first class were in various stages of sleep. For various reasons, everyone else in the plane can also be eliminated as threats, which leaves the crew. Excluding you, the airline personnel entered just before the passengers boarded. Though the nametag the woman who was operating the flight roster had listed only her last name, the other attendees greeted her by her first, and were acknowledged. You were the only one who remained silent. That leaves only the captains, neither of whom has exited the cockpit since liftoff. You have no accomplices, and it really is very inappropriate of you to accost me in this manner in a one man bathroom." So, Wes' grin grew. "You said questions would be asked, so I better get started. Who the hell are you?"

Wes managed to hide his emotions much better than his airsickness as he finished his monologue, just in time to see the slightest muscle movement in the man's trigger hand.

Wes acted on impulse, flashing back to his own informal martial arts training, he didn t attempt to knock the gun away, in case the trigger was pulled by accident, which wouldn t be good in such a confined space, but instead hit a nerve in the man s shoulder with a two finger jab. The man dropped the gun and, before it had even clattered to the ground, he grabbed it and hit the man in the face with the butt, knocking him out cold.

For a second afterwards, Wes just stared at the gun in his hand, avoiding looking at the would-be-assassin passed out on the floor. Then he simply groaned, wondering why these things always seemed to happen to him, albeit normally less dramatically.

Turning to leave, he hesitated at the door then turned back around. He had the sudden urge to pee. Ignoring the unconscious man, Wes turned around, lifted the lid, and unzipped his fly. After he was done, he lowered the lid, and hoisted his comatose attacker onto it with a groan, dismantling the gun (How the hell did the man get a gun onto a plane anyways?), and wiping off the prints. Knowing the gun would be useless without it, he tossed the clip. Smiling, he exited, leaving the occupied sign lit, and headed back to his seat.

Passengers please remain seated and fasten your seat belts. The plane will be landing in London in approximately fifteen minutes.

Wes slid into his seat beside Alex, who was staring morosely out of the window. "Hey."

Alex smiled. "Hey."

"What was your phone call about?"

Taking secretive pride in his poker face, Alex pasted on a smile. "Nothing much." Just my future, England's future, and the fate of the free world. The usual. "Where did you go?"

It was Wes' turn to smile. "Nowhere special. I was just feeling a little airsick."

So that was how it began, the web of lies. And like the butterfly effect, it expanded. Repercussions are still being felt in this world. From this point on, I am making a decision that is another example of the butterfly effect. My decision will effect you and all those round you, stealing you from the ignorance the government has created. The Butterfly Effect is only the beginning, the first file of many in a set known as The Stranger and the Spy. Welcome to the world of espionage and intrigue. Welcome to the truth.


	5. Chapter 5

Stepping off the plane Wes felt a grin creep over his face. Finally, no more planes. Slinging his old army knapsack over his shoulder and thanking God he hadn t packed anything but his laptop and a change of clothes, he set off through the airport, pulling his aviators low over his nose.

Stepping into the street outside of the busy Heathrow airport, he glanced down at his watch. Great timing. They wouldn't find the man in the bathroom for at least fifteen more minutes. Not long enough for them to catch up to him, though it seemed his past already had Putting his fingers to his lips, he stepped in front of an empty cab and whistled, the piercing note echoing as the cursing driver slammed on his brakes. Wes smiled, at ease. It was impressive how these English people managed to fit bloody into their vocabulary so naturally.

Ignoring the still fuming cab driver, Wes slid into the back seat. "Take me to the Dorchestor." Wes snapped. Just as he expected, the hotels name snapped the cab drivers mouth shut as he stomped on the gas. No matter where you go, Wes figured, people would still do anything for money. The dark aviator glasses hid his smiling eyes.

Standing in the middle of the bustling crowd of people that filled Heathrow airport, the man frowned, shifting the briefcase in his hand. The operative should be here by now. He should know the consequences of being late. Maybe something had happened. It wouldn t be the first time.

Alex Rider shuffled impatiently as he waited for his suitcase to come around the carousal. As he leaned forward to look for it, something caught his eye. It wasn t so much a movement, as a lack of movement. A man stood almost perfectly still in the middle of the terminal, a heavier than necessary winter coat on and a briefcase dangling from one hand.

Long buried instinct almost brought a smirk to Alex s face. The man had to be inexperienced: a fedora was no one s idea of blending with the crowd. Alex glanced around for additional exits, feeling a thick lump in his throat as he realized how easily he was falling back into the pattern. He never should have come back to England. He should have told them simply to ship everything to California, he d go through it in San Francisco.

Instead, he now found himself standing there, having fallen straight back into something, if he was any judge of character. He stared with a sudden hatred at the man in the fedora for making him curious, for putting him on edge

A hand gripped Alex s shoulder and he immediately pivoted on the ball of one foot and grabbed the arm for a throw. He stopped himself just in time.

"Crawley." He hissed. He suddenly felt an uncomfortable sense of panic. He reminded himself that Blunt was gone, retired and golfing his days away, preferably somewhere far off from London.

The operative offered him a bland smile, holding up a suitcase in one hand. "I believe this is yours, Agent Rider?"

Alex frowned at him. "Alex, not Agent, Crawley."

Crawley just continued to smile and Alex couldn't help but think of how incredibly appropriate the man's name was as the creepy crawleys raised the hairs on his arms and made his spine stiffen. The man with the briefcase suddenly didn't seem that important.

"I'm not back, Crawley, so don't give me that look. I don't want it. All I want from you is a ride to the Chelsea house, and I'd prefer a damn taxi." Alex followed the man out of the airport to a small black Lincoln with dark tinted windows. He groaned. "Might as well use a creeper van, this is so obvious."

Still silent, Crawley just slid into the driver's seat...

Wes sat back in the cab and took in the scenery outside his window. He clicked on the button to open it, but nothing happened. The sour bile of suspicion rose in his throat as he surreptitiously slid a glance at his driver before pulling the handle of the car door. It was locked.

"Dammit," Wes groaned quietly. "Not again..."

He should have realized it sooner. There was no way he should have gotten an empty cab so easily in front of one of the world's busiest airports, the locking mechanisms on the doors in the back were missing, there were a few drops of black die on the supposedly black haired driver's collar, and his facial bone structure didn't match the driver's id pinned to the dashboard. Of course it would happen to Wes, just when he thought his passport hadn t raised any flags, that they hadn t found him

Watching a black Kawasaki Ninja drive past, Wes smiled, the speed and trajectory calculations running through his head like lightening. Sliding down the seat, he raised his feet, knowing he d have to time it perfectly. He d only get one chance. If he didn't make it... He had to...

Not just for him, but for all of us, oblivious to his predicament. Wes had to do something. He had never been the complacent type. If he had been, he might have ended up sitting in front of a computer, reading about situations he never dreamed were real, unaware of the world just beyond his own reality. The world of spies and secrets and lies. Being the way he was, however, he couldn't avoid it, couldn't avoid the things he had seen and the choices he had made. They say curiosity killed the cat. Hands sweating as he prepared himself for the moment he would make his latest rash decision, Wes wondered if he would make it. The cat had better chances. At least cats always land on their feet.


	6. Chapter 6

As sunlight glared down, reflecting against the metallic bodies of cars speeding down the thickly trafficked London road, a scene began to unfold, a destructive chase which led to answers which led to more questions for which there were no answers.

Wes slammed both feet into the window, ankles pressed tight together, hoping that his calculations were correct and that, despite the rest of the precautions that had been taken, the glass was not bullet resistant. He was aware, by unfortunate past incidents, that with enough force concentrated on a single area of an average car window which averaged around a quarter to a sixth of an inch thick, one could break the window rather easily. Per usual, Wes' calculations were correct. The glass shattered in an explosion of sharp chunks as sunlight suddenly streamed into the dark back of the cab. The surprised driver didn't even have time to react as Wes threw himself out of the window, feet first. He landed just as he had planned, straddling the Kawasaki Ninja. Wes' face screwed up as a jolt of pain shot through him and the bike lurched slightly.

When he heard the sharp crack, Tom swiveled his neck to see what the noise was, cursing the way his helmet limited his peripheral vision, only to feel a sudden thump as something- someone- landed behind him. As he struggled to control the bike, a string of foul expletives launching from his mouth in a rapid fire succession, a voice spoke from behind him, a nonchalant voice that was weirdly familiar.

"Nice ride. I'm normally more of a Norton man myself, but this... this I could get used to." Hazel eyes sparkled as Tom glanced back, meeting them with his own incredulous glare.

Alex glared distractedly at the road, reminding himself that this was for Jack, that he was giving her family some closure... Something caught his eye and he flew to attention.

"What the..." Alex watched in amazement as an oddly familiar shape burst from a nearby cab window in a sprinkling of glass and landed on a nearby motorcycle. When the motorcycle rider glanced back, the visor of his helmet slipped up by one darting hand, despite the shocked expression his face was frozen in, it was immediately obvious. The broad shoulders, laughing eyes, and sharp features unmistakable.

"Tom?" Alex breathed in shock. Then, as the insane risk-taker glanced back, Alex once more did a double take.

"Wes?"

Alex threw himself over Crawley into the driver s seat and grabbed the wheel. "Drive!" he shouted, his voice so commanding that Crawley didn't even hesitate to plant his foot on the gas. The engine revved as a gunshot rang out.

Crawley slid to the side and Alex took his place in the driver s seat without tearing his eyes from the road, his eyes glued on two vehicles driving two lanes over at incredibly high speeds. He was so concentrated on the scene before him, ignoring the constant rise of the needle on the speedometer, that he almost missed it as a truck veered towards him, switching lanes.

"Shit," he growled as he had to swerve into the farthest lane, forced up the ramp leading up to the overpass. A string of expletives, many of which he had only learned in his time in America found their way out of his mouth until he spotted it

Less than a second later, the car was launched through mid air, wheels still spinning. A feral grin lit up Alex s face. The guns, death, and constant threats, he hadn t missed. This He wondered if he was crazy, missing this.

The car landed with a thump, rolling into traffic to the blaring of horns. The nearly forgotten passenger cleared his throat. "Next time, I d appreciate a warning." Crowley growled.

Alex laughed, for the first time since returning to England.

"How did you know there was going to be a ramp there?" Crawley questioned.

"I didn t."

Alex glanced over at his passenger and was surprised to see Crawley grinning. "So, who we chasing?"

Alex raised his eyebrows at this unexpected side to Crawley. "A friend." He stated tersely.

Tom almost hit the brakes when the stranger spoke. Maybe it was some instinct, or maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was just how familiar the strange boy seemed, but either way, he kept going. Flashing a grin back at his unexpected companion, Tom decided just to go with it.

"Where to?"

"Chelsea," Wes stated, "and could you try to use an obscure route? The taxi..." he trailed off. Tom didn t bother nodding, just revved the engine, a bullet whizzing past where his ear would have been a moment before.

"Right," Tom muttered. Chelsea. A face he had tried to avoid thinking of for several months now flashed before his eyes.

Behind him, Wes was impressed by how well Tom was covering his tracks. He said so.

"I ve done this before. For a friend," Was Tom s obscure answer." And I know the neighborhood. Born and bred in Chelsea. Anyone specific you re looking for?"

"Alex Rider."

So here the butterfly effect began to take effect, events driving Wes and Alex closer together just as Tom almost drove off the road when he heard the last name he d expected to hear, though thinking back, it was the most sensible thing to assume was coming. After all, birds of a feather flock together, and jumping out of the window of a speeding car onto a motorcycle was something only two people in the world would do. Thinking this later, you must wonder about Tom himself. How come he always attracts the crazy ones. Well there is only one answer, that becomes clearer and clearer as our tale progresses


	7. Chapter 7

He was crazy.

Wes had decided that must be true as he heard his ride chuckle to himself once more. "Alex Rider," the boy muttered. Shaking his head again and vibrating with mirth, the boy had lost all semblance of sanity.

"Can you tell me what's so damn funny?"

The bike's driver just shook his head harder. "I'll tell you what's going on if you tell me what's going on... Alex Rider! Ha! Should have figured..."

Wes sighed, running through his options. "Fine. You know that scene in Knight and Day with the motorcycle chase?"

Tom opened his mouth to reply, half-formed scenarios already running through his mind. Wes cut him off.

"Excluding the fact that the movie also has an incredibly attractive main character, like the story of my life, this is nothing like that. If it were, you'd be a hot blonde. And you'd be armed."

Tom grinned into the pounding force of the wind as he accelerated. "I may not be your idea of a hot blonde, but weapons, I can do. Check the saddlebag."

Wes' eyebrows raised at this new revelation as he loosened his grip on Tom's shoulders to reach for the saddlebag. It was then he saw it.

"Damn," he cursed, the word foul in his mouth. "We got company."

Thoroughly enjoying himself, Tom let the engine have a little more rein, feeling his baby purr beneath him as she edged up into the hundreds, her speedometer not even halfway covered. He swerved through traffic like a demon, cutting corners and hopping curbs, laughing all the way. On the back of the bike, Wes felt mildly queasy. Not so much because of his driver's idiotic, death-defying stunts, but because of what he was going to have to do.

Very much aware of the Lincoln with dark tinted windows (so obvious Wes almost groaned) two car lengths behind him and closing, Wes let go of To' s shoulders and swung one leg around so that he was sitting sideways on the bike, his knees on either side of the saddlebag. With careful desperation, he tore the bag open only to find...

"Paintball guns?" But they weren't just any paintball guns. Wes was shocked and a bit awed to find them outfitted with sniper scopes, laser target-finders, and made to operate as fully automatics.

Accurate up to four hundred yards. It was hard to tell, but Wes could have sworn Tom sounded smug.

"Where in the world did you find these?" Wes was still in shock.

"They were a birthday gift, from a friend of mine."

"Some friend."

Looking at the rifles, Wes had an idea. He hoisted one of the rifles up over his shoulder and flipped on the laser target-finder, trying not to fumble as the car behind them continued to gain, moving closer. Getting the finder on, he pointed it at the Lincoln.

Inside the car, Alex saw the tiny red dot hit the windshield.

"Crawley," he queried uneasily. "These windows are bullet proof, aren't they?"

In the passenger seat, Crawley just smiled. "Smithers built it," and with that he pulled his own gun, a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard 380, out of the side of his coat, "Don't worry," he reassured Alex before he could protest. "It shoots tranquilizers."

A naggling suspicion hit Alex. Crawley, Alex said, his voice measured and even. "Why did you come to meet me armed with a tranq gun?"

Crawley snorted. "It's protocol that any agent near you is armed with at least one of these."

On the Kawasaki Ninja, Wes smiled. The other car's windshield was probably bullet resistant, yet alone paintball resistant, luckily, that wasn't what he was aiming for. Predictably, the passenger side window opened and a hand holding a gun slid out against the side of the car.

"One shot," Wes muttered. Still holding the laser at eye level, he began to dismantle the other paintball gun with one hand, eyes still peeled on the car behind them, still gaining.

Ten seconds...

"I can't lose them," Tom shouted, his words almost torn away by the pounding wind. His adrenaline rush was wearing off and he found himself wondering what kind of shit he had gotten himself into.

Nine and a half seconds...

Alex gripped the wheel as he accelerated, his heart racing. That was his best friend on that bike carting around a gun toting maniac. He had no idea what Wes had gotten Tom mixed up in, but he was going to bring them in, to sort things out. He swerved to avoid a red minivan, dodging through lanes of traffic just behind Tom, his heart in his throat. I can t lose them. He had seen the man lean out of the taxi before, had watched the bullet that narrowly missed Tom's head, he was not losing anyone else. Not after Jack, not when he had just recovered his heart from the ashes of that vehicle, its charred corpse lying still in the sands of Egypt.

Nine seconds...

Wes remembered the map in the airport, his mind running down their path so far. "Good," he muttered. "Just a little bit farther... I'm not going down without a fight this time."

Eight and a half seconds...

Crawley shifted as he leaned out of the window, cradling the gun in both hands. He didn't want to shoot the two teens, even if it was just with tranq darts. At the speed they were heading at, a crash was almost inevitable. At the same time, the brown haired one was pulling out weaponry on a public road, which would lead to too many questions that he could not answer. Crawley hated this part of the job. He liked the adrenaline and the feeling of knowing things about people, the feeling of knowing the things that people walking down the streets, going about their normal lives, would not dream of, but he hated the violence. He hated the uncertainty and the knowledge that he couldn t save everyone. Steeling himself, he tightened his grip on the gun.

Seven seconds...

Wes grabbed the chamber of pressured air used to launch the paintballs . He was tired of this, running without ever knowing who was after him and why. It was time he went on the offensive, put all of his plans to use. He wasn't running from his past anymore.

Six and a half seconds...

The chase left in its wake a whole line of honking cars and screaming pedestrians, slamming on their brakes. One taxicab weaved easily through the chaos of stopped vehicles, towards his target.

Six seconds...

"Take a deep breath," Wes yelled. His hand held the scope sure as he watched the laser. Not because he was aiming at the windshield, but because he was watching its path as it reflected off the dark windshield. He had never missed anything he had aimed at. Even ricochets had purpose.

Five and a half seconds...

"What?" Tom yelled, turning to face the crazy git who had suddenly taken over his life. It was because he turned that he missed it, missed seeing the bridge up ahead and missed the idea that had planted the crazy glint in Wes s eyes.

Five seconds...

Alex huddled over the wheel, eyes widening at the view of the bridge in the distance, seeing it start to raise. "Oh, hell no..." He muttered, and planted his foot harder on the gas.

Four and a half seconds...

"Crawley?" Alex sounded distracted, a hint of humor in his tone.

"What?"

"You asked me to warn you when I'm thinking about doing something like that again, you know..."

"Crazy?" Crawley turned away from the window for a second only to smile at Alex. "You damn well better do more than just think about it, because at this speed, there's no way we could brake in time."

Alex didn't reply. For a second focus darted up to the red laser dot on the windshield, then he tensed and narrowed his eyes, once more focused on the road.

Four seconds...

The cabdriver smiled as he drove, almost bumper to bumper with the Lincoln. The boy may have evaded his colleagues before, but the boy had no way of getting to him through the other car. He would bide his time until the other man had completed the job, he thought, glancing at Crawley leaning out of the window ahead of him with a gun. If the other man succeeded, the job was done. If not, well at least the boy was distracted. No matter what happened, the boy would die. The armed man just collateral.

Three seconds...

"Got a lighter?" Wes asked Tom.

No longer surprised, he just tossed one back, Wes caught it before the roaring wind could tear it away. It was the last thing he needed.

Two and a half seconds...

Wes lined up the shot. It had to be perfect.

Two seconds...

The motorcycle was almost on top of the bridge now.

One and a half seconds...

Crawley lined up the shot as their car neared the bridge. It had to be perfect.

One second...

As his first step towards fighting back, Wes put his plan into action.


	8. Chapter 8

Thanks everyone for your patience and your reviews. With the whole midterms thing updates have been a little slow. Oh, and the whole fugitive from the government thing. That always puts a damper on my day. So this unedited, straight from our own dear protagonists, who, unfortunately, because of anti-slavery walls that MI6 are clearly not aware of, are not owned by me or any of the League for that matter. (and I am not talking about the tv show, but this this comes later on)

* * *

><p>As soon as the trigger was pulled, the paintball gun with its specially engineered automatic feature flung a volley of paint filled pellets at the Lincoln with the force of over 600 psi behind them, the splatter coating the entire windshield, leaving the people inside unfortunately unaware of how high the rising bridge was progressing.<p>

Tom turned back to the road in front of him, only to see grey. The bridge had risen so that it obscured Tom s view of everything. There was nothing but a rapidly rising several ton block of concrete. Tom screamed.

As the concept of certain and inevitable death was on Tom s mind, Wes glanced back.

One hundred and one degrees relative to his position, he calculated the rise of the bridge. Well shit. He lined up the laser and watched its reflection glace against the steadily rising concrete.

"Speed up!" He shouted to Tom, but there was no time.

No time to speed up. No time for Tom to be shocked at Wes words, only the split second of impact against the concrete, the tires spinning as they searched for traction on the wall of bridge that was now looming at an almost ninety degree angle, the Lincoln closing in behind them.

It was less than a second, yet the time seemed to slow down for Wes as he watched their predicament curiously, his brain logically evaluating their position, factoring in the bike s weight of approximately three hundred pounds plus three pounds of gas and three hundred and ten pounds of human beings at six hundred and ten pounds, give or take four for equipment, traveling at a speed of two hundred and forty five with a force composed of mass times acceleration confronting a solid concrete object at a current angle Wes reached past Tom and yanked up on the wheel, trying to stop their own speed from killing them. He needed a thirty five degree angle rise to safely start them on the almost perpendicular slope. The tires caught and pushed them up. One meter up the rise and Wes found himself holding his breath. All he needed was to get the back wheel up on the slope for less than a second, long enough for the bike s speed and natural balance along with gravity to pull them around.

God, he suddenly realized. He was crazy. He grinned. Flipping a bike almost three hundred and sixty degrees. It was utterly insane.

Wes felt the vibration as the Lincoln hit the wall underneath him at an incredible speed, actually driving the car up the slope a bit. The bumper caused the bikes back wheel to wobble. Part of Wes felt a smug satisfaction. He had timed it well. They had not been pinned to the wall like butterflies by the other car, and now, Wes had his landing ramp.

In its peculiar state of suspension, Wes mind didn't even register the screech of tires finding purchase or the sharp squeal of twisted metal slamming against concrete at high speeds. He didn t take in the cracking and shattering of bullet resistant glass. He barely registered the jump of his stomach as the front of the bike tipped backwards, off the wall, rotating around. He barely felt the bruise-like grip he had on the machine, his thighs clenched around its body and his arms locked around Tom. His mind saw only numbers and equations, angles and figures.

Tom was in a blind panic. Squinting his eyes open after a second without impact, he frowned. It almost appeared he was upside-down... He dismissed the idea. He was on a motorcycle after all. He could accept the idea of a boy jumping out of a window and onto his bike, he could accept a high speed chase with a stranger, for God's sake, his best friend was a teenage spy! But driving upside-down? "I'll be the Queen of England," he gasped before snapping his mouth shut in an effort not to bite off his own tongue.

With a jarring thump, they landed and Wes relaxed, their bike perched on the paint-spattered hood of the Lincoln.

Reaching towards the front of the bike, Wes wrenched it around and revved the engine, pushing aside the arms of a still-shocked Tom. Now was not the time for hesitation.

"Drive!" He shouted. Without question, the other boy complied, the top of the Lincoln rattling under the Kawasaki Ninja's wheels.

Wes relinquished his death grip on the motorcycle's handle bar to grab his near forgotten compressed air tank and lighter. He laughed.

"Time to get out of here, your majesty..."

As they thumped down onto the trunk of the Lincoln, Wes finally got a good view of the cabbie behind it. Unfortunately, the cabbie also got a good view of him down the sights of his sawed off shotgun.

Wes sighed. Such a messy weapon! These people had no creativity.

The motorcycle bridged the gap between the two cars.

A finger tightened gently on a trigger.

Wes smiled.

Tom screamed, again. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins. It was a feeling he recognized, something he normally only felt around Alex, a mixture of fear and excitement and the knowledge that he was going to die. Because that was a bloody big gun. Who even carried shotguns in England? A detached part of him wondered. Wasn't that like, illegal? Of course, now that he thought about it, so was shooting someone in the face, which he had a horrible feeling was about to happen. Too bad. It would be a waste of a very fine face.

"Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve?"

"No, but I do have an ace." Wes laughed.

In the Lincoln, watching through the rear window, Alex growled. "Not my friends."

He spared a quick glance at Crowley. "You alright?"

"Well that went well... Excluding the whole crashing and burning, almost dying part."

Alex offered him a grim smile. "It's not over yet," and prayed to God Smithers was as good as he remembered him being.

Wes fingered his makeshift weapon. This was going to make one hell of a boom. H' d always wanted to try this.

Crowley raised one eyebrow, his bland face twisted mischievously. It was about damn time he had some fun. He was long overdue for a midlife crisis and he'd never get a chance to do this again. Screw the rulebook. It was more like guidelines anyways.

Alex switched the Lincoln into reverse.

The cab driver's eyes narrowed as his finger closed tight around the trigger. From this distance, he couldn t miss.

Several miles away, a pretty blond flight attendant screamed in distress as she caught sight of the unconscious man lying prone on the floor in the plane s bathroom. She dropped in a dead faint when she saw the gun.

If she had been looking out the window at that exact moment, she would see a cloud of smoke rising in the distance, but she didn't see the smoke. She didn't see the fate of the two boys aboard the Kawasaki Ninja or the boy in the crushed Lincoln. She didn t hear the roar of the shotgun or the squeal of brakes, the crash of metal against metal.

Similarly, around the world, people like you lay unaware in your beds or attended school and work, caught in the grip of the powerful and totally unaware of what was going on on that small bridge in London. Those who passed by saw only a car accident, an unpleasant twist of fate. They looked away from others misfortunes and headed home to their own lives. Few saw the fight to the death that occurred. Few saw who emerged victorious amid the smoke, the sounds of the wreckage obscuring the distinctive sound of gunfire and a single scream.


End file.
